Bailey tossed the bikinis away and headed for the thongs.
“Where to now?” She asked as they headed back into the cold loaded down with packages. Her strength waned, and a fresh headache teased her temples.
Emmet pulled his phone out of his pocket. Someone had sent him a text. He tapped a reply and shoved the phone back into his pocket. A cab waited, whether for them or there by chance, she didn't ask as he held the door open and she slipped inside.
Emmet gave an address, in German she might add, to the driver and off they went. “Can you tell me now where you’re taking me?” Snug in her new coat, she peered at him over the rim of her collar.
He wrapped an arm loosely around her shoulders and whispered, “We are going on a cruise.”
"We are not." A cruise? Them, around a thousand people, while targeted by a killer.
The skepticism on her face must’ve tipped him off because he whispered again, “Trust me. You have so far, don’t stop now.”
More and more, she found that easier to do. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
He reached inside his coat, fished around for something and pulled out her pretend engagement and wedding rings. “I know what I’m doing, Mrs. Reynolds.”
“Famous last words.” She snatched the rings out of his hand and shoved them on her finger.
The cab coasted to a stop. “Wir sind hier,” the driver said.
“We’re here.” She translated, though Emmet didn’t need it.
He paid in Euros and climbed out of the car, his hand tucked into his jacket on his gun, his gaze on everything. He blocked the door, preventing her from exiting the cab and joining him.
What if Rogers was out there, in broad daylight, sighting him with a laser. A single round to the head would end whatever this was between them.
Hell, it would end him.
She lifted the back of his coat, ran her hand up his ass, earning her a questioning glance over his shoulder, but he didn’t pull away. She reached the small of his back and pulled a gun free. All under his appraisal.
She tucked the gun into her pocket as he moved aside and helped her out of the cab. They were at the harbor on the commercial side of the Elbe River, where all the tankers lined up to load and unload their containers. “Where’s the cruise ship?”
She had visions of Carnival, Royal Caribbean, Celebrity. Nothing close to those ships were moored. They hiked half a mile, passing tanker after tanker until he veered toward one named Mercury Star.
Emmet pushed her in front of him, and they jogged up the gangplank and shook hands with a man in dark blue pants and a pale blue shirt with insignias on the collars who waited for them at the top. “Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds, welcome. Nice to have you on board. I am Jasof. Let me show you to your cabin,” he said in a heavy German accent.
Hand to the small of her back, Emmet kept her close as they navigated the containers to the command tower.
Through narrow hallways, they were shown to a cabin with a bed slightly larger than a twin bolted to the wall, a metal table and chair, a single lamp, and a single tiny porthole window. There was a minuscule shower and toilet with a steel basin on the wall outside the door.
“Thank you for the accommodations.”
“Bitte,” he said and tipped his head to Emmet. “Now that you are on board, we will leave. Expect departure in twenty minutes.”
“Radio the captain, I need to speak to him as soon as possible.”
The man pulled a radio off his waist and relayed the message. The reply was, “Bring him now.”
Emmet studied her, concern flickering in his eyes, and she couldn’t deny the flutter in her heart. “Go. I’m going to take a shower.”
“Is there food in the galley?”
“The hour is between lunch and dinner, but I’ll bring your wife something. Come. I’ll take you to the captain.”
“Umm, Jasof. Give me thirty minutes to freshen up.”
Jasof tipped his head to her. “Yes, Mrs. Reynolds.”
Mrs. Reynolds and Mrs. Jeffrey. Strange hearing those names associated with her.
“Thanks.”
“I’ll be back,” Emmet said.
She stopped him with a hand to his chest. “Come back soon.”
“Absolutely, Mrs. Reynolds.”
Chapter Twenty
Emmet didn’t hurry back. Bailey had enough time to remove the bandage from her scalp and assess the damage. Located a few inches behind her ear, she didn’t have a clear view, but someone had closed an inch-long gash. Probably the doctor who’d questioned her. The bags under her eyes demanded attention, along with the black and blue area on her jaw. Hell, she looked as if she’d gone several rounds in the ring and had lost.
“Should’ve bought makeup along with the clothes.” Staring in the mirror wouldn’t make any of it better.
Carefully, she washed her hair and body under the tepid spray of water in the tiny shower. Tepid or not, clean beat dirty.
Dressed, she packed her new duds, and Emmet's in a worn garment bag Jasof brought her, along with a meal. After all that, she had time to snoop through Emmet’s duffle bag, which he hadn’t taken with him and hadn’t tried to hide. He left it on the counter, out in the open.
Cash, passports, and credit cards. All the ones she'd seen before with her picture. He must've packed and hidden the bag with the snowmobile. Always thinking ahead. She loved that about him.
She loved a lot of things about Emmet. That was part of the problem. Ten days into this misadventure and she’d fallen in…
She parked her ass on the narrow bed. Holding the passports and credit cards in her hands stripped away whatever romantic notions swirled in her head. “I am not in love,” she said to an empty room. Then what was she?
Leave it alone, Bailey. Unfortunately, she wasn't the type to "leave it alone."
What was this, the thing taking root between them? It may be stupid, but she needed to name it, give it a label, so her expectations had hard limits.
“We are not in a relationship.” A week and a half on the run does not qualify as a relationship. A laugh ripped from her throat as Daisy’s voice filled her head. “Girl! You are in a situationship. You’re stuck together because a psycho is after you, but once that is over…”
Yeah, once the situation was over, they’d go their own way. Yeah. Because did she really think when all this was over they’d play boyfriend and girlfriend? Set up house? He’d mow the lawn on Saturdays while she pulled weeds in the garden. Have three kids, two dogs, and one cat. A mortgage and a minivan?
“He’s not a keeper, Bailey. The bad boys never are.” And he’s a fucking hitman! The ache in her chest was acid reflux, not her heartbreaking.
She had enough time to return the passports and credit cards to the duffle bag before the door opened and in strolled the object of her soul-searching. "Good, you're dressed."
“Why?” she asked as he grabbed the duffle bag off the counter and the garment bag off the lone chair. “We just got here.” Just being a few hours ago.
“And it’s time to leave.” He tossed her coat at her.
Panicked, she asked, “Is Rogers here? Did he find us?” He shook his head. “Then what is it?”
“Plan B.”
The mysterious Plan B. “Where are we going, Emmet?”
He ignored her.
Coat half on, she stepped in front of him. “I’m not leaving until you tell me where.”
Posture rigid, voice sharp, he snapped, “A little too late to not trust me.”
Which had her bent. My, his attitude had flipped faster than a gymnast in the Olympics. “Who said anything about not trusting you? I want to know where we’re going. I’m tired of being a yo-yo, not knowing anything that’s going on in my life.”
He got in her face, way too close. “Your life is my responsibility, that’s what’s going on. Questioning my every move is getting old fast.”
She didn’t back down, because hell if any of this fucking situa
tion was her fault. She didn’t ask to be hunted, or be the daughter of a killer or fall hard for a hitman.
Damn it!
She was no one’s pet project. Not now. Not ever. “I didn’t ask you to take this responsibility. You don’t like it anymore?” She pointed at the door. “Leave.”
Sharper than a razor, his voice cut into her. “I leave. You die.”
The finality of his statement rang millimeters from the truth. She didn’t want to die. That didn’t mean she had to put up with his bullshit. “Maybe. Right now, that’s a better option than staying with you.”
His gaze dipped to her mouth. A few inches and they'd be locked together. His tongue would be in her mouth, and his hands would be on her body.
Situationship.
Bailey moved to the porthole to stare at the calm moonlit waters, which was better than looking at him.
“Melodramatic much?”
She couldn’t disagree, however, the entire argument was melodramatic.
He came up behind her. “We are moving to another boat. A private yacht. Plan B is us sailing up and down the Elbe. Constant motion. A moving target with the benefit of access to several major cities where we can get lost. Any further questions?”
“No.” She spun away to finish yanking on her coat and grab the garment bag he’d tossed down during their argument. She didn’t wait for him to step into the hallway or join her as she headed back the way they’d entered a few hours ago.
“Wrong direction. We’re not going up. We’re going down.”
So much for a dramatic exit. A quick pivot and she followed him to an elevator at the end of the hall. Ten decks below, they emerged onto a lower deck off of the engine room where Jasof waited. That’s when she noticed the ship had stopped. It probably had been stopped for a while, since a ship this size couldn’t brake on the dime.
“Mrs. Reynolds. Mr. Reynolds. Follow me, please.”
He guided them to a pressure sealed emergency hatch. An alarm sounded when he pressed a button, and the hatch swung open.
“From here, it is a short climb down.”
“Down to where?” She took a few hesitant steps forward and peered out of the hatch to one hell of a yacht waiting in the distance and a speedboat bobbing one hundred feet below with a crewman at the controls.
“I’ll go first.” Emmet stepped up and tossed his duffle and garment bag out the hatch, then studied her with those cold blue eyes of his. “Are you afraid of heights?”
Until this moment, she would’ve said no. She leaned out of the hatch and peered at the boat bobbing below.
“You’ll be fine. Most of the ladder is caged. Let’s get going.”
Bailey zipped her coat and nodded more to herself than to Emmet or Jasof. “I can do this,” she mumbled. “I survived an explosion. I can climb down a ladder.” A few deep breaths, two quick snaps of her head to relieve the tension, then… “I’m ready.”
Emmet disappeared out of the hatch. One tentative step brought her to the handrails and damn, they were cold. A pair of gloves would’ve come in handy. Hopefully, she wouldn’t be here, hanging over the side of the ship, long.
Three rungs into this fucked up adventure, she made the mistake of looking down at the inky ocean spread out like an oil spill. Instantly dizzy, she clung to the ladder.
“Bailey.”
“Gimme a sec,” she said through chattering teeth. Beneath the layer of clothing, sweat collected on her clammy skin.
His hands circled her waist, and Emmet crawled over her. Now she was caged by his warm body instead of cold metal.
“I’m here. Right here with you and I’m not going anywhere. We’ll go as slow as you need.”
His voice in her ear, his breath on her cheek, both grounded her. She swallowed down the lump in her throat along with the fear. One rung at a time, with Emmet's steady hands on her, she descended. As she got the hang of it, he descended faster, and she heard him land on the speedboat.
“Five more to go,” he said.
She counted them off, and next she was in his arms.
“I got you.”
Pressed up against his body, he certainly did have her. “Thank you. I’m fine, now.” She pushed away from him and failed to ignore how she slid down the length of his body.
The hatch slammed closed with a resounding ring at the same time the engine of the speedboat kicked on. She stood for the short ride to the yacht and asked over the roar of the speedboat, “Whose yacht is it?”
“An industrialist who owes us a favor.”
“His bank account must be huge and his dick very small.” That got a chuckle out of the crewman.
With a steadying hand on her back, Emmet stood next to her. "He's a billionaire, so the size of his bank account is enormous. I don't know anything about the size of his dick."
She laughed, couldn’t help it. “Well, that’s a relief.”
The speedboat docked inside the yacht. The steward met them. "Mr. and Mrs. Fredericks, welcome to the maiden voyage of Chrysalis," he said and took them on a winding course through the ship to the staterooms.
Now they were the Fredericks, Bailey noted as Emmet took the bag of clothes she’d packed from the crewman. “Thanks. We got it from here. I’ll be sure to tell Mr. Morgan how great you’ve been.”
“Morgan?” she whispered when the crewman walked away. There was only one Morgan that came to mind who could possibly own a boat this lavish. “Julius Morgan?”
His half smile gave his non-answer.
Bailey opened the door and entered the most beautiful suite she'd ever seen. Private office, next to a private conference room, living room done in tan suede with blue trim, and mini-kitchen with all the accouterments for extra private meals. Then they entered the bedroom.
Circular and situated at the front of the boat, it gave the occupants nearly a panoramic view of the wide river. Done in dark wood with amber accents. The carpet plush and beige, the lighting recessed. Behind the California king-size bed, a walk-in closet stocked with clothes, the tags still attached, and a full bathroom with a marble sunken bath and shower big enough for an orgy.
This was how the other half lived. Damn!
Living here would not be a problem, ever.
“Should we be staying here when the suite is clearly meant for the owner?”
Emmet tossed their bags down. “He’ll get over it.”
Bailey eyed the bed. No way would they share it tonight, or any night. Nope, not happening. Time to make sure he understood.
“Which room are you…”
He stood in the middle of the room, shoulders drooped, face tense but not from anger. Brow pinched between his thumb and forefinger, he was exhausted.
And that’s when it hit her. The blast happened, then the escape and the tanker, now the yacht. Through it all, Emmet had taken care of her at the expense of himself. Every second, he was with her, protecting her while she slept, without a break.
When was the last time he’d slept? Ate?
Bailey shoved him to the edge of the bed. Elbow on knees, he sat there while she tugged off his boots and socks, then tackled his shirt. Through it all, he offered no resistance.
She got a good look at the bandage on his shoulder. Dried blood colored the white rectangular barrier a deep burgundy. Carefully, she pried an edge free and peeled the rest away revealing a neat row of stitches. A lot of stitches.
“What hit you?”
He shrugged, and she focused on the way the stitches pulled tight with each flex of his muscles. “Felt it. Didn’t see it. Pulled it out and kept going.”
Weariness edged each word. "Lie down, and I'll take your pants off."
“Now that’s how I like a woman to proposition me. Get to the fucking and cut the preamble. Unfortunately, the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know that.” She scoffed.
“Yeah, but I couldn’t resist.”
She slapped the back of his head.
He snickered. “One day you will mean it. One day soon,” he murmured.
Arrogant man, but maybe he wasn't entirely wrong. She pushed at his shoulders to get him to comply. Emmet didn't budge.
“Shower first. Too dirty for bed,” he complained and shoved to his feet. By the time he circled the bed to the bathroom, he was naked. Gloriously naked. Every muscle on display for her pleasure alone, a view she’d never tire of seeing.
She picked up the phone on the desk and called for a turkey sandwich with lettuce and tomato, mustard and mayo on the side—everyone liked a turkey sandwich—and a first aid kit. By the time he exited the bathroom, a towel draped around his hips, hair slicked to his skull, beaded water clinging to his skin, and steam chasing him, both items had arrived.
Seated at the desk, he wolfed down the sandwich while she spread antiseptic cream on his wound and re-bandaged it. When he finished, she helped him the few feet to the bed. He collapsed in stages, like an accordion folding badly. But once his body hit the bed, he was done. He flopped back, dead to the world at the wrong angle.
It wasn’t easy, took a good amount of tugging, but she managed to get him stretched out. At her mercy, she studied his relaxed features. Without the scowl, he had an innocent baby face. It was easy to imagine him as a child, rambunctious and fearless. The exact opposite of her.
She took Taekwondo and karate, not because she had an affinity for martial arts, but because she wanted to impress Hank. It didn’t work. He still ignored her.
“It’s too late to take a trip down memory lane.” She moved away from the temptation of stretching out next to him and snuggling into his side.
Situationship had her bed of choice, not the California king, but the sectional under the windows. An extra blanket and pillow she ferreted out of a closet were all she needed to fall asleep as soon as she was horizontal.
Sometime during the night, she opened her eyes to find herself cradled against his chest. She didn't question it, didn't fight it when he lay her on the opposite side of the bed. And she didn't protest when he tugged off her yoga pants and sweatshirt, leaving her in panties and bra.
Plain Jane and the Hitman Page 14
